


Skyclad

by jentaro



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Author is trans, Jonah Magnus Week, M/M, Trans Jonah Magnus, extremely one sided dialogue heavy, nonbinary simon fairchild, there is no smut in this fic but it is rated M for a reason, this is my personal essay about simon fairchild and his gender identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24720523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jentaro/pseuds/jentaro
Summary: "Kinda like a cloud I was up way up in the skyAnd I was feeling some feelings that you wouldn't believeSometimes I don't believe them myselfAnd I decided I was never coming down”Down In It - Tiga
Relationships: Simon Fairchild/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus, Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	Skyclad

**Author's Note:**

> jonah magnus week day five is live! content warning for magnification of reality and light references to child abuse. especially if you are easily prone to overthinking and/or if the whole concept of vastness can cause you to spiral, definitely take care in reading. 
> 
> [i’ve also decided to share my simon fairchild gender moodboard playlist if that's your thing!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1xjxeuzIrIwozBx8o3raGo?si=zZTWa9gLSwCyZbANcH4P_g)
> 
> IMPORTANT: this work features four separate images and zalgo text. because of the nature of these two things, in order to restore accessibility for people who may be using screen readers (or who have a hard time reading distorted text like myself who just loves the aesthetic), i have added image descriptions and clarification bits in [brackets]. on mobile, the images work and also kinda don't. you'll see them looking cut off BUT you can side scroll to see the full things. i tried very hard to fix it so that it would scale to fit but i gave up because unforchewnitely i am lazy. it should work fine on desktop, sorry ):
> 
> EXTREMELY important: ye olde simon fairchild's name is Lucious Douglas in this fic and i cannot in good conscience not tell yall that i was using a victorian name generator and that name came up, but my dyslexic ass read it as Luscious Douglas which is absolutely simon's '70s porn name. and now i'm attached to it so it stays, because regency era simon is now my oc, eat rocks jonny. 
> 
> this is my extremely personal essay about simon fairchild's gender identity being explicitly nonbinary BUT in the sense that he is so far beyond gender that he cannot be constrained by western ideas and limitations. i am projecting onto this shitty old man very hard and you're all welcome
> 
> you can find me on twitter @ somegarbageisok on main and @ slimejen on tma/side, also on tumblr @ jennyloggins! feel free to say hi :^)
> 
> huge huge infinite big thanks to autodidact for the beta, this wouldn't even be half as polished as it is without his help 🥺

They are standing together as Lucious Douglas shuts the door of the bedroom, having led Jonah upstairs and away from the noise of the gathering downstairs that has gone on late into the night. It is at least an hour past midnight, he would say, based on the position of the moon in the sky as well as the chill from the propped open window. The wind rustles the drapes as it comes gently through, bringing a bit of serene relief from how stuffy their host’s study had been. Late autumn left the woods around the manor going bare, the colours of the leaves on the trees turning rusted and brown and red and gold and orange. Like a carefully painted canvas, Lucious thinks, sitting Jonah down at the foot of the bed. He fusses with the curl of Jonah’s hair and says, “My dear Magnus boy, you were quite off-balance for a moment there. Are you alright?”

Jonah presses a hand to his own head, Lucious watching him looking around at the room cast in shadows. The moon is half-hidden by clouds tonight, chasing each other in the sky to merge and eventually dissipate once they have finished their course, much like the conversations around the room they had escaped from. The evening surely had taken its toll on his ward for the night, as these social gatherings usually did. 

Talking hard after decent hours about politics and religion, about theories of the human psyche and about medicine advancement—there is only so much one may take of it before listening in becomes a sickening experience; hearkening to rude boasting is not Lucious’ favorite activity by any means. The pack of educated men quite love rattling off their findings from their field work and studies. Of course, it goes without saying that those discoveries are usually the hard work of their assistants that had their due credit snatched from them. That is precisely why Lucious has cordoned Jonah off into a room away from the bustle, feigning his own headache and directing a flagging Jonah away after a particularly unpleasant barb from a fellow guest.

“I don’t know what came over me, but I’d rather not trouble you, Lucious. Are you sure you’re okay missing out on conversation just to entertain my dizzy spell?” A man still compelled to participate in the niceties of gentlemanly courtship, but still one that Lucious has been getting a read on for quite some months now since he appeared fresh-faced amongst ostentatious scholars. Hiding behind a facade of pleasantry instead of asserting himself for fear of ridicule. A work in progress, learning mannerisms as he has gone along, and he would say Jonah is doing a fine job of it so far. While he does not apologize for the space he takes up, Jonah tends to toe around it carefully like a practiced routine, something that Lucious had noticed right away when he had made his acquaintance originally.

“It is within my right to want to tend to such a fine young man as yourself, Jonah. You have been such an invaluable conversational companion in a room full of stuffy middle aged men crowing on about their accomplishments. A breath of fresh air, certainly,” he says with a smile, going over to the side of the bed to light the candle there; striking a match, Lucious holds it to the wick and watches the glow spring up in the room. Over Jonah, it looks enticing, highlighting his red hair and bouncing off the lustrous green threading of his vest. Quickly extinguishing the flame with a shake of his hand, Lucious drops the spent match and walks over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and tilting Jonah’s chin back with the other as if to appraise him. “I like that cut of cloth on you. The style suits you very well—have you considered having more garments tailored like that? If not, you should.”

He can see the hint in Jonah’s eyes of _wonder_ , the brief flash that confirms for him there a deep validation that this poor lad craves, undoubtedly. It seems the decision on his predicament was made before he had even asked himself the question on whether or not he would try and introduce Jonah to his world. Not his Patron, or at least, not directly. Tonight is a night for smoothing the hair away from Jonah’s brow, then dropping his hand to undo the buttons of his vest to take it off, carefully pulled from his arms and then laid over a chair across the room. Lucious takes his own off and gently tosses it down all the same, to which Jonah gives him another look that he waves away. Instead, he toes off his shoes and bends down to do the same with his charge, kneeling on the creaking hardwood as he unlaces Jonah’s unshined boots.

“I have no ulterior intentions than to help you relax your body and mind. Your handsome countenance should not be wrinkled with fatigue, so I would like to lay back with you and talk if you care to.” Again, Lucious catches the reaction of feeling affirmation in one’s appearance by how Jonah’s head tilts and he presses his lips firmly together. It would be criminal to leave such a poor, sweet boy in a room full of people who could never understand his particular woes when Lucious could spend that time reassuring Jonah instead. “Does that sound agreeable, my dear?”

Jonah nods and says, “I think it does, yes. I could use a moment to empty my mind.” He clears his throat, looking at Lucious as he moves to the window to push it up a little more to let some much-needed fresh air in, adjusting the pins on either side to keep it open at the new height. “What should we talk about?” The question is a touch more nervous, but Lucious can see the quiet confidence that comes from admiring someone who takes your …circumstances seriously.

“I am going to tell you about someone,” Lucious says, wiping his hand free of some stray dust from the window on his pants and letting his shirt open before he rejoins his charge. “And I would like you to listen and rest yourself.” The breeze picks up, and he can see Jonah’s eyelashes flutter as Lucious grasps his shoulder again. For a long moment, he forces the tranquility of his power upon him, the expansive feeling of the immensity that comes with his territory. The pleasant, buzzing echo of open air in a sweet summer breeze. Just a taste, barely there and passed off as another bout of wooziness, naturally. A courtesy to ease Jonah into complacency for all of Lucious’ fondness for him.

Leaving him to go around the side of the bed, Lucious stacks the pillows at the headboard before sitting down on the comforter, hefting himself toward the middle of the mattress and laying back with his legs spread open. Jonah stands and steadies himself with a hand clutching the bedpost, accidentally tugging off the tie of part of the curtain and closing them in just a _touch_ ; Lucious is not bothered by that, rather, he almost wishes he had thought of it himself. The curtain closes them off enough that if someone were to walk in, the angle would disallow an intruder to see the two men immediately, but it also gives Jonah the wherewithal to look around the rest of the room if he pleased. 

Speaking of, the man is wobbling precariously for a moment as he gets on the bed with him, unsure of where to rest his head for this. Lucious guides him to sit between his legs and plants him down with Jonah’s back to Lucious’ chest. “There you go darling, perfectly safe in my hands,” said with a grin above Jonah’s hair.

“If I were to know any better, I would say you were the most dangerous man in that room. How do I know I am safe?” Jonah’s breath rushes out in even bursts, elevated as he closes his eyes against his lightheadedness. 

Leaning back further into the embrace of pillows, Lucious tangles one hand into Jonah’s brilliant red hair in a brief card to get the stray bits out of his eyes, the other reaching for his glasses to put them off to the side on the comforter. “You don’t, so that is why you are to trust me, my boy. No harm will come to you here; I would hate to cause untoward injury to someone I’d be more suited to mentor. No, tonight I want to tell you about someone who I knew, once, and who seized their own self into their grip and shaped themselves to their will.”

His voice is soft as he speaks, lulling Jonah into an easy silence with his cadence. “Can you imagine someone changing like the clouds? Wisps of possibilities building upon themselves, evaporating disliked traits, an inconsistent and roiling feeling underneath the skin shining outward. No, first _imagine_ the clouds, the shapes that move, stained with colour from the sky and the sun and the moon and the stars. Imagine them floating across the sky in gentle puffs, different shades of silvery and hanging high up in the heavens. Imagine the sun, muted yet still bright, its light filtering through thick clouds to divinely bathe us in its glow.

[Image description: The Martyrdom of St Paul, painting by Tintoretto. It depicts St. Paul on his knees with another man at his left holding a sword meant to behead him. An angel is coming down from the sky holding a wreath on one hand. The sky behind them is glowing yellow from what looks like a murky sun, the rays shining down in the same color. There are dark clouds on either side of the angel.] 

The sun is setting, and there are more colours in the sky than we have named. There are more than we can see, colours that have not been discovered yet, that human beings cannot even fathom as we are. They _are_ there, outside the realm of our understanding, beautiful and untouched. There are so many possibilities, combinations we can only dream of and beauty that has gone untapped. Wonderful feelings that fill your chest with purpose and pride.

And there within the sky too is a tempting dark depth which ruins people. A depth that makes one want to to fall into a void and never come out. It makes them wish to swim in an ocean so wide that they could drift for centuries and never see another strip of beach. Corresponding to the darkness that fills a person to their nethermost reaches, bone deep and terrifying to behold. To become so unhinged and raw that there is no other option than to shed what it means to be the character that you are forced to play until all that is left is yourself in the truest, most grim form.

There is a person I know who has been _everybody_ , and nobody, and they have been _some_ body. Right now, they are themselves, a _concept_ , something that changes and adapts to its circumstances and preferences. Within the same life or within another, their body has been the canvas upon which the paint of their outward expression covered the surface. Altered painstakingly and painted over, the minutiae chipped off when they change their mind. Sometimes they are sure of exactly who they are, and other times they go on a dramatic escapade to find what fits best. 

The concept becomes misunderstood, but the person still exists in spite of being wrongly interpreted. It was easier for them though, back when these things did not matter quite so much, when the masses left a deviant to themselves. Now, there is much more to worry about, and it is not so simple to exist as you are. To be in possession of a body that is meant to be worshiped and yet does not line up with your imagined perfect self, to have to break rules and live in secret in order to live in peace for even a second.”

Pausing for breath, he can feel the way Jonah’s breath hitches at his last words, hitting the nail on the head, so to speak. He gives Jonah a kiss to the crown of his head, keeping up the serene note of his powers so Jonah’s attention doesn’t waver. The lad seems to be doing well, so Lucious continues after a deep breath.

“Think of the body as a canvas upon which the paint of the mood covers the surface. Sometimes it is easy to make a change, and other times it is not. When you change your clothing or your hair or the makeup upon your body, these are the details that can be washed off later. Repainted. But the canvas is always the same, the body that you are born into is the one you will die in, which is unfair at best and _agonizing_ at worst. 

The canvas has changed for this person—many times in fact. By sheer willpower, seemingly, they have been able to change their body to fit the desires of their heart. A process that will be repeated again and again until the candle of their spirit is snuffed out for good. But until then, whenever his mind interprets the self differently, he switches things up. And sometimes that means that he becomes she. Other times it means that she becomes unknown and uncharted. _It_ is an abstraction, and time and again it is misunderstood out in the open. So, it prefers to hide that part of itself, and in the day to day it will usually conform for ease of existing, but after dark is where it can flourish unchallenged. When the gentry go to bed, it can blossom under the benign presence of open space without the contaminations of persecution.

Right now, he is himself. And he is in a body that has the same features as he had originally, long ago at the start. His soul is old, but he has changed many times over the years. He has been tall, and he has been short. Bulky, and thin. Healthy, and sick. Devastatingly poor, and obscenely rich, the latter which is _much_ more fun,” Lucious says with another grin, looking down and seeing Jonah resting gently with his eyes closed. He is still awake and paying attention, but Lucious knows that he is taking the time of somnolence as a chance to refresh himself rather than drift into a slumber. And then he continues, trying to impart the _feeling_ of his home village from so long ago onto Jonah.

“

[Image description: The Harvesters, painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. It shows a serene scene of a golden field being harvested for wheat. There is a tree off-center on the right where a handful of tired villagers are resting while others continue to work to cut and tie the stacks of wheat. In the distance, other parts of the field can be seen along with some buildings in the village. ]

At the very start, he had grown up much the same as his other peers. His parents put him to work early in the fields that lay in the middle of the village, sweating alongside the rest of his siblings. His early life was not even close to remarkable, more of a dull toil from dawn to dusk situation. He had five older siblings and eventually a couple of younger ones. Three brothers and four sisters total. As families do, when his siblings outgrew their clothing, a piece would be handed down the line until it either disintegrated or went to him.

And so he was poor, dirty, and _obsessed_ with the work of the old seamstress across the way. He had been given a hand-me-down of his twice elder sister’s, a blue dress embroidered with birds, and it had been stitched lovingly by the hands of that old woman some years before. The threads had gotten dirty and very well worn over time, but because it had been bartered in exchange for his father chopping her firewood for the season, nobody could bear to part with the fine garment. 

And while it had been meant as a dress, on him it worked as a long tunic that puffed out a bit on the chest. He would try not to wear it to the field if he could help it to preserve the colours and the stitching, instead saving it mostly for days of rest. Perhaps that’s how it started,” Lucious reminisces to himself, taking a breath to think about his first childhood. He had worn the threads bare to the point where the cloth had ripped terribly on accident one day when helping a neighbor on a chore. The memory now is not quite as bitter as the feeling had been then, able to look back fondly on the chain of events that led to him disappearing from that village for good and never looking back.

Lucious takes a moment to study Jonah too, seeing that he is still alert and awake. Jonah continues to be relaxed from his patron’s influence which thankfully keeps him just beneath the threshold of being dazed. He is holding his own, breathing evenly as he looks around the room. Perhaps at the closed window? The curtains are drawn, and the stars are visible now as the clouds seem to have cleared up. With the conclusion that Jonah is fairing fine, Lucious continues.

“One day the dress had gotten damaged, and he had gone crying to the old seamstress asking her to repair it, but she could not patch the long gash in the fabric without ruining it. What she did instead was invite him to watch her weave her threads and make clothing for other people in the village. The whole process was quite involved, but once the fabric was made and then cut and sewn, she would then spend hours embroidering intricate designs. 

More importantly, she also taught him about art; she would let him practice drawing with the ashes of her fireplace, and he would mimic her embroidery as best as he could. He would sit on the uneven stone flooring for hours drawing and erasing rudimentary shapes in soot—sometimes he would stay until his mother would yell for him across the whole village after dark. When he was not working, he could usually be found there. 

He would help her out around her house like any good child would help their elder, and in exchange she tried to teach him a bit of weaving at first, though that didn’t stick quite like drawing; she noticed and pressed him to practice his art instead. The old woman had even gifted him a sheaf of paper and a piece of charcoal. The art was messy, but he enjoyed it and wanted to make more than he could fit on paper, and she was glad to have a helper. And when the rare treat of paper from the seamstress did not sate him, he would barter with the owner of the apothecary for additional sheets so he could continue to draw. 

For him, drawing on paper was like standing on the edge of the earth looking out at the universe. An incurable obsession, a fixation of his that never quite went away. The depth of his desire was bottomless, a chasm that he wanted to fill with his beloved craft, and it was his first indication that he wanted _more_. More of what, he hadn’t been sure then, but he did know that he hated working in the fields, and he hated the calluses on his hands that would be left stinging and cracked in the winter. Art was an escape from the hurt of hard labor, and he wanted to sprout wings and escape it in any way he could. 

Stuck on the wretched ground as he was, he busied himself with helping the old woman when he was not working. She did eventually gift him a tunic to replace the one that had been ripped, but it was not the _same_. He had been disappointed with it, though out of respect he kept that to himself. The original dress had fallen further down over his roughspun trousers, to about mid-thigh. Often when he was alone on the hillside, he would forego the pants and let the sun and wind rest on his skin on those rest days. Since it had been meant for his sister, the garment had fit quite awkwardly as he grew, but the comfort it had given him had made him feel like those little embroidered birds. Soaring in their cloth sky, away from the rough field work, up into the clouds and never to return. The tunic did _fit_ , yes, in the proper way. The fine material was special since it was a gift, but not in the same way.

The designs were nearly the same, though, and he went home to show his family the beautiful garment meant to replace the damaged one from a year or two before. His father did not receive the revelation well, and so he left the village by sneaking off with a traveling caravan headed for Venice a few days later. He left with the tunic on his bruised back and saddled with feelings of wishing the garment were longer, or that it had the same half sleeves that stopped at his elbows. 

He learned quite a few things with the traveling caravan once they found their stowaway; they decided to keep him on since they were too kind to just kick him to the side of the road. Too many dangerous beasts and bandits, and even if he was another mouth to feed, he would take care of the horses and help around the campsite when they would settle for the nights. He learned how to cheat with playing cards first, then one of the men showed him how to polish blades properly, and little things like that. And then they arrived at Venice, where he parted ways with temporary friends.”

Jonah is still breathing evenly, but now he has shifted in his lap so that his arm crosses over to hold onto Lucious’ shoulder as if to grab his attention. “Are you alright, my dear?” Asked quietly, smoothing his hand over Jonah’s hair. “If you are feeling better, we can go back downstairs; or I can leave you to your rest if you are growing weary and go excuse your absence with our host.”

His ward sighs and looks up at him with bright, determined eyes. Lucious can see the appetite lying beneath the surface, the yearning, forceful desire to know more. Jonah’s hand grips his shirt tightly in his fist and says, “Tell me _everything_.” There is no particular urgency imparted on him, nor any type of supernatural coercion. But he can _feel_ how Jonah craves to know the rest of this tale, and Lucious is more than happy to impart it.

“Then I will continue, just for you,” Lucious says with a deep breath, throat feeling a bit scratchy now but not wanting to get up to get a drink lest he break this spell they are in.

“Since you are so lively tonight, this part of the story is worth mentioning, so I am glad you are willing to listen. He parted with the company that had kept him, and then he tried to find somewhere that would employ a young man that knew nothing. It ended up that the only work he could find was either at the stables toward the mainland or as an errand boy for one of the brothels on a main canal. So naturally, the brothel was the choice; a safer position than having to tend to horses and potentially lose a limb, but only just.

The matron was kind enough to let him work at the brothel without also putting him in a bed, though he wasn’t spared the wayward gazes of deplorable men. Once in a while he was grabbed at, and the grand dame would put a stop to it, but it wasn’t bad enough to want to find work elsewhere. He was fed and washed and he was allowed to sleep in the storage room, even given a small wage that he would save away.

More importantly, he was a darling of the women who worked there as well. One was kind enough to teach him how to read, and the same signorina gifted him paper to draw on since he would talk about how he missed it. She was particularly sweet to him, in particular the one time she let him try on an old corset when he was about fifteen years old. Called him lovely, painted his cheeks and his lips with pigment to go along with it. 

He had not been able to look in a proper mirror then, a shame; feeling the curve of his waist with the crude corset had been a formative experience. When she brought him to the glass of the window, his painted face in the cloudy reflection awakened something else. The _art_ of it all, something held so dear to his heart, called to him. Just a bit of cheek rouge and a thick paste of dark pigment brushed on his lips. ‘Gorgeous’, she said, and turned him around to kiss him. All good things must end however, and eventually the Matron had enough of her errand boy messing around with one of her girls, so he had been tossed out with his few belongings.

He kept the corset, and he wore it often under his embroidered shirt that was now nearly too small to wear completely. And he wore it the day he sneaked into a drawing session like he belonged there with loose paper and charcoal in hand and no easel to work with. He was found out, of course, but the teacher was impressed with the impression of the model he had gotten down on paper. So he was allowed to come back, eventually working his way up to paint. And _oh_ how he liked to paint. People first, getting their details down until he often found himself changing features as he wished his own to be changed. 

There, it was safe, painting the draping folds of a frock on a figure that had been modeled by a man, but made more enigmatic on the canvas. Men would be given darling little curves, and women would be given angular features. There, he was able to detach himself as an artist to the subject being _subjective_. Open to interpretation in every possible way and to mean different things to different people. Something that he struggled with for himself, feeling neither like he were a man, nor a woman. 

He did have an income as a painting assistant to Tintoretto, his skill with a paintbrush undeniable, but still unable to make art for himself just yet. So he would paint what the master asked of him, practicing figures and copying his style _precisely_. Of course, on the side he would do his sketches of whatever he desired since paper flowed freely. But overall, he proved that he was capable as a methodical stand-in, which meant usually he was one of the few who would be permitted to help when the old man’s hands got tired. So he said—Tintoretto would frequently be drawn to new inspiration, leaving his assistants to clean up the minor details of the previous work. Regardless, he helped with minor details first until he was approved to work on the skies in the master’s paintings.”

Lucious pauses again, exerting the blessings of the Falling Titan a tad more which makes Jonah grunt quietly against the spinning in his head. He hangs his arm low across Jonah’s hips, grasping at his waist firmly in an attempt to keep him grounded. It works, judging by Jonah taking a long, deep breath to steady himself. “Keep going.”

Who would he be to deny Jonah the knowledge?

“The sky—a magnificent being of its own choosing, always, _always_ in a hurry to try on a different look. The clouds will swirl and the colours will change, and he is at peace. Painting and not worrying about the lines he has to fill, able to move his brush in time with his heart. _Saint George and The Dragon_ , one of his favourites that he ever assists with.

[Image description: Saint George and the Dragon, painting by Tintoretto. It depicts a clearing by the waterside that has foliage on the hills. There is a woman at the bottom of the painting running away while her pink robe over her deep blue dress floats behind her. There is a man dead on the ground ragdoll T-posing like this is Skyrim or something, and presumably Saint George riding a white horse just behind the dead guy. There’s a dragon there that the horse is charging at. A castle is in the background out of focus, and above it the sky is divinely bright. God(?) is peeking out from the clouds, surrounded by multiple brilliant rings of light that the rays of light shine out over. The clouds are swirling around the figure, overcast blue-grey in their coloring.]

The work in progress is ethereal in a way that leaves him breathless, and then he is trusted with painting the sky surrounding the heavenly Father. God—someone that I have never been able to connect with, even when the community demands attendance to church. To think that there is a man that lives in the skies, judging your every deed… a ridiculous sentiment where the truth of the world is _far_ greater than that.

Tintoretto’s skies tended to be murky, but they fit _perfectly_ within my worldview. Some skylines had a much brighter palette, but each time I painted the darkness of my heart, I could feel myself _falling_. I would let my thoughts drift as my paintbrush moved, keeping the master’s dark, reverent themes and intent in my strokes. Jonah, I _fell_ for it. For every possibility, for the endless desires of my heart answered by the sky. It was _terrifying_ at first, falling into the void where the emptiness of my surroundings expanded on all sides. Like my head was spinning

and _spinning_

 _ａｎｄ ｓｐｉｎｎｉｎｇ_ [and spinning]

.̸͔̝͍͉͎ͬ̏̓͐̐͢

 _ **a̲̘̗͓̣͔̬̟͆̿͑̎́̿n͖̙̬̲̟̏̔ͨ̌̓d͙̣̐ͫ̎ͧ̓ͪͧ ̩̪͈͇ͭ̅̈s͚̝̜̱̜̍ͩ̓ͥͣ̋͗ͫp̬̣̗͚͔͕͕͔͂͛͊͑͗ͯi̳͇͇̋̍̀̏͆͗̚n͕̟̪̰̽̂ṅ̹̖̰̳͕͍̼͊̌ͣ͛̍ͤi̘̩̖̝ͬ͑̋̐n͖̻̹͔ͧ̌͐g̲̫̰̊̎̎̾͋̅̏.̞̣̍̽̏ͩ**_ [and spinning]

.̧̭̱̹̹͇̹͈ͨ̓ͤ

U͢n҉t͡i̢l I̵ wa͠s̡ so̧ diz͟zy̴ t҉ha͟t I̕ ͡c͏ouldn̷’t̵ _ｂｒｅａｔｈ̧ｅ_ , u͠ntil ̡I ̕f̢ell to͠ ͟my̨ k̛ne̸es͜,͏ te̵rro͞r҉ fl͜ee͏ing͡ fro̡m m̨e ̵as I ̴emb̵ra҉c̛ęd͜ i̡t̴. Fre̴ȩ ͢and҉ pe͟r̕fe͘c҉t͡ ̶a̸nd u̧n̕d̡er͞s͘tood̡.” [Until I was so dizzy that I couldnt' breathe, until I fell to my knees, terror fleeing from me as I embraced it. Free and perfect and understood,”] Words drip from Lucious’ lips like the static of electricity in the air before a storm. The air itself is thinning of oxygen enough to be noticeable; Lucious can feel Jonah’s strained breathing, and he does not make to stop, not now. Not _yet_.

“I accepted it, and I craved it, and I cried into it, and I called it my own. The terror of feeling like I did not belong quickly turning into me embracing the velocity with which I wanted to live. It showed me that I could be someone that could take everything they wanted and then some. The power of being able to swap my body for another, to dress it as I please and be touched by whoever caught my eye. And all I had to give up was my humanity,” scoffing at the old loss, Lucious brushes Jonah’s hair away again from his pinched face, checking in again. The lad’s breath hitches, as if caused by confirming a suspicion rather than his elevated breathing. 

It is a shame that he would more than likely assume the ideals of another entity. Jonah would fit in well with his own Patron. 

The thought makes him realize that he had gone back on his own promise to himself to keep his God out of this, but it’s a touch too late for that now. Jonah is at attention, eyes gleaming as he looks up at Lucious, keeping his questions to himself for now. Instead, Jonah demands, “Tell me _more_.”

“I have felt _every_ emotion there is to feel, my dear,” Lucious starts, swallowing in an attempt to soothe his throat. “I have felt every bit of pain that a person can conceivable go through and _then_ some. I have taken bodies hostage both male and female, and I have changed my clothing to fit what I felt like. I have bore children, and I have lost them. I have felt the deep, dark depths of grief and all of the agony that comes with it. I have been in pain so great that it is a wonder I still stand. To feel the vastness of _feeling_ , and to allow myself to define who I am is something I would choose to do every time, to come to terms with _monstrosity_.

I am a monster,” said in as plain a way as possible.

And then boldly, “A _Monster_.

The most comforting term to be labeled as. 

To be inhuman, and unrecognizable by people who do not share your experiences.

To be a class all of your own, feared and hated for your perfections.

I fell, and I was lost to the sky.

I was lost in the _concept_.

I am doomed to be allowed to be limitless, and it is _incredible_.” 

Lucious takes a deep breath and lays himself back further against the pillows, getting more comfortable as he shifts Jonah in his lap. His Patron spirals around them, wider and deeper and _gargantuan_. The lad reaches up to put his arm around Lucious’ shoulders and pulls himself closer, panting hard into his neck, “Lucious,” bit out as Jonah presses close.

“It feels like your head will spin off of your shoulders, and it feels like your body is echoing as if the the choir that sings in the Notre Dame is tucked beneath your ribs, like a single touch will send you into a frenzy. Your skin feels sensitive enough that every touch is like a drop of cold rain on fevered flesh. And you are _a̷̯͙̹͖͓̰̰l̟͖̰̜i̧v̷̰͖̺ͅe̞͈̘̗_. [alive]

I used to dream of joining the sky and getting lost in between the planets. I would dream of the untapped potential of the realm of the stars when daytime was an unpleasant ensnarement. And all the same, I dreamed of being free to express who I was without fear, and that has become a blessed reality. The bliss that comes from letting go and falling, _falling_ and forgetting the fear that comes from being untethered from the ground. I let go of thoughts and feelings and jumped straight into the arms of a God that wants me to be _infinite_.

.  
.̟̩̰̉ͩ̕͡.̴̗̣̭̯͎̻̍̅̿̇̓ͯ̔̚͘.ͯ̂̈́̈̽ͬ͋҉̸̮̮̜͔̼͈͇

B̿͊͋̍ͬ̔͟͢ō̒̑͂͗ͣͫ͞u͂̚͠n̋͒d̓҉̴lͩ̑eͤͤ̚̚͢s̨̍̂ͯ͒̉ͪ̎ͦ͟s̡ͬ.̴̨̧̈́ͫ̾̋ [Boundless]

I̵͡҉n̢͠e̕͜x͠ha̢ųs̴̢t̢i̸̕b̵̶̶l̴e̵.͘ [Inexhaustible]

U҉n̵͘f͢͝ąt͘h͜ơma͢͡b̴͏le. [Unfathomable]  
̧͢҉  
I̴͡n̶de̷͝f̴̧͘in͝i͞͏̕t̢̛̕e̛.̵͠ [Indefinite]  
̨  
͘͜Me̷͘as͘urel̶̸e̷͢s̛͘͡s̢.̛͘͠ [Measureless]

I̕͞͝n͜cąļc҉u̕l͝a̢b̕lȩ.͘ [Incalculable]

_V̵̵͕̦͔̤̥̼͕ͅa̫̺̹͕͓s̨͓͙̘ͅt̟͍͓̻̣̲̘̱_. [Vast]

.̵͍̙͇̝͓̯̪ͨ͋̋ͣͥ̈́̍.̵̲̲͓͎̼̱̲̜͗̔͒͂̓.̞̬̫͙̘͈͙̤͚̌  
.

To know what lay past the limits of humankind and to know how many possibilities exist for me beyond.

Jonah, I am _obscene_ in my hunger to be infinite. To touch the baffling boundaries of existence itself. I have been given an absurdly long life used for my own personal growth and gain and _terror_. Does that make me a villain, finding my own peace with myself? Does it make me a scoundrel and a sinner to doom others to their deaths so that I may feed my God and it will continue endowing me with the ability to discover where the limits end? I want to _go_ until I fly too close to the sun for knowing the completion to infinity, cursed to plummet back to earth with my wings burned away for my own hubris.”

Jonah slumps against Lucious’ chest, breathless as he listens to him. His power keeps building gently, a pleasant exchange meant to gift Jonah with a bird’s view of the Vast. He knows Jonah will not go to anyone with this, a secret safe so to speak. So Jonah will get as much as Lucious will give.

“The terror of the ocean, the blue of the sky. The inky black of night and the nothingness beyond. It is exhilarating to think about, how our understanding of the universe at large has changed since the ancients first worshiped the sun and the moon and the wind and the sky and the rain and the sea and the stars as Gods. We are so _ignorant_ to think that this is unique, that our corner of the endless bounds of time and space itself was created just to harbor _us_. As if we are so special, as if we are not here to feed invisible forces that we do not understand. 

Have you ever done an experiment? Have you ever been the test subject in an experiment? The subject must produce the results that are expected in order to make the proctor happy. Their success is determined by producing the desired outcome, and if they do not? What do the researchers do? They change the experiment, and they find what did not work and re-evaluate it. If the result does not happen even still, then the administrator _will_ have to change their thesis.

Fear is a special thing, Jonah. That is what controls us, and it is what _drives_ us. The forces of our universe are no more than beings that sap our very selves away as tangibly and horrifically as possible unless you learn to control it. You harness your own fear, and your own darkness, and you turn it back to them as if to say ‘your experiment will not work, and now what will you do with me?’. Their answer is to try and scare you again and again until you are either broken or rewarded. The reward you seek is there, and the cost is worth it.

Before I fell, I was ridiculed, Jonah. I was deemed a monster and a deviant, I have been beaten and assaulted and been told I am worthless. I have been a man who has enjoyed success, and I have been a woman oppressed by those around her, and I have been in between as a drifter changing their attire with their mood, and I have been in the shadows as a heinous criminal with my own experiments that has a body count. I understand what it is like to be on the periphery, and for people to not take me seriously. So I change my thesis, and I run a new experiment,” he says while nosing against Jonah’s hair.

“It is exhilarating to think about, that the universe exists, and that we are witness to it. That one tiny little element gathered together with others could make something so complex as the stars, or a planet, or a _person_. Blood and tissue and meat and organs that function so specifically that if one is compromised, the rest are to follow. And that humans are capable of such complexities of their own, it is fascinating. 

To have every piece of music to choose from and yet I come up empty handed for enjoyment in the face of the background static of the noise generated by my God. But that does not discount the beauty to be found in human fingers plucking at the strings of a harp, or playing combinations of the keys of a piano to try and generate _feeling_. Emotion is easy to well up, but it is the fear that makes people sick to their stomachs, anxious and overwhelmed, and _so_ easy to toss through my domain.

I feel the gentle, loving embrace of being unable to be fathomed and categorized properly when I act opposite of convention, and it is something that I would like to see for you.

To push past your own limits just as I did, nearly tearing myself to shreds to go faster and deeper and _further_. 

Imagine a sea with no bottom. No ceiling for the sky. No walls for the cosmos itself. Stretching so thin that everything in creaton may cut itself into ribbons and collapse on itself for audacity’s sake. 

How old do you think we are as human beings? How old is _time_?

It is another concept that cannot be touched, _time_. The magnitude of time itself incomprehensible on the human scale, for we are only now just beginning to understand how _old_ we are. Have you heard about fossils Jonah? About humanoids roaming the earth, having died thousands and thousands of years ago? And then there are the ancient creatures that have dwelled on this earth for far longer than you can sit here and count numbers. You would be out of breath by a hundred, but we are now discovering the bones of antique beasts that have walked where we have so long ago that to think about it makes one lightheaded.

Isn’t that _grand_?

How are you feeling Jonah?”

Lucious enkindles his powers, the wind outside picking up more now and the air smelling _wrong_ , of rotten oxygen before a strong storm that has been brewing for days. His charge is immobilized, and Lucious pets his hair, cooing for him that he’s alright, that nothing will harm him as he gets used to the sensation of _falling_. Part of him wishes this would turn his destiny, but he knows that Jonah is sitting here and dwelling within the fear to _understand_ it. 

“Think about time, my dear man. Think about what you can do in the space of one second. You can breathe, and you can blink, or you may utter a short word or two. Within one minute, you may read a paragraph or confess your hopes and dreams to someone who does not wish to hear it nor returns your affections and aspirations. You withdraw into your heartbreak immediately, burned by refusal. Within the space of an hour you may feel on top of the world, and then you are pushed to the dark depths of rejection that allow you to harbor resentment and anger. 

One day is enough to make a plan for revenge. One day allows the blight to corrode your emotions and your heart. You may decide to cease contact with someone, or you may decide to do something more permanently harmful. You make the decision in a day to steal a life, and the potential of that life, and you make someone rue the day they hurt you.

One week and you change your entire perspective, your entire _self_. You cut your hair, find a new costume to keep up your performance of humanity in, find someone else to occupy your time. And then a month passes, and then a year passes, a decade will come next. Where has the time gone Jonah? You do not know where the time has gone. You were once young, and now you are old. You have lived a century, and you are another person.

What is one hundred years? What is human innovation? What will you do once a millennium has passed? Will you still be the same person you were when you started? Or will you be ensnared in the human concept of being born and not being able to change yourself to your liking?

How far will you go to prove your worth as a man to your peers?

There are _fossils_ , Jonah, creatures that lived thousands of years ago. Perhaps _millions_. Can you count out a million without stopping Jonah? How far will you get before you need to rest?

Our Earth is not unique, _oh_ the things I have seen when my consciousness wanders through my Patron. Have you ever imagined a cloud so high up in the sky that it is to be found in space? Can you imagine that gravity gently pulls those clouds together over millions of years until they are bubbling forth new stars in a violent, burning collision of stellar dust?

[Image description: The Pillars of Creation as seen from NASA's Hubble telescope. It shows a stellar nursery, a cloud of dust that has three columns that fade into one combined cloud at the bottom. The dust trails off into small strands in some places, and in others you can see where they form points that will turn into stars. The colors are dark blue in the upper corners, fading into a lighter blue/green and eventually into a rusty orange/brown. Overlayed on the image are many points of light to indicate distant and near stars.]

Hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, trillions, quadrillions, quintillions, _infinite_. There are more stars in the sky than we can successfully count, our bright constellations making pictures in our eyes that tell us stories. All things that exist because we say they do are so much more than we think. Each star is like our own sun, and there are stars born every day that hold the potential to spend an unfathomable amount of time forming their own system of planets that have their own moons and compositions of materials.

Planets like our own Earth, able to host life in the same way. Stardust that turns into people like yourself or myself, who _know_ there is more out there to life than donning the ensemble that corresponds to our genitalia and thus our station in life. Places where people are not bound by something so abstruse as ‘male’ and ‘female’. Where polite society doesn’t have a chance to be ruined because everyone is much more kind, and they create art, and they treat each other as the infinite beings they are.

It is a dream that I awake from with heart palpitations and envy because gender is an overripe, spoiled parcel of land upon which there is an oxidized, derelict piece of infrastructure that I wish to tear down. It was much easier to exist when it wasn't an elaborate ritual in itself. It is a corrupt conception, to hide within one’s gender so viciously that you may attack someone else that does not have the same attachment to such a mundane theory.”

Jonah has begun trembling, and Lucious does not stop his affections. Petting his hair, leaning in to kiss the crown of his head. He does not relent, the wind outside howling and in through the open window hard enough to ruffle the bed curtains. The candle too goes out, bathing the room in a much darker atmosphere. The dramatics fit, certainly, and Jonah whimpers atop Lucious’ chest, eyes closed as he tries to stay afloat. Lucious will not pull him into the bottomless pit of his Patron tonight, but he will let him fall to get his point across. 

Quietly, below his jaw, “Keep talking.”

“I am like the fruit rusting on the vine, and I am the fruit calling from the trees. As the seasons change so too do I erode away what it means to be myself and become a metaphor instead. The fruit itself, ripe, tender, a definition with a hundred meanings and as many tastes. What is a fruit but a category of food? What is a human but having a heart and rational thinking? To say there are two right kinds of people you can be would be to call figs and grapes the only two delights found in nature. As if apples do not exist, and strawberries, or cherries. As if vegetables are exempt from the edible kingdom that we dine from, or meat, or the grains that make up our bread.

To say I am a man would be to say there is one drop of water in the ocean.

To think me a woman would be more laughable than to count every grain of sand on Earth.

I am like the crescendo of the clouds over a mountain, dropping snow so high that to disturb it would cause an avalanche. I am the forest high on the other side of the peak that gets a much more gentle blizzard that melts in early spring to create delicate rivers that cut into jagged and green valleys. I am the blade of grass you pick from a field as a child while you stare up at the deep expanse of the blue sky punctuated with clouds fluffy enough to sleep on. The gentle, frighteningly deep nap that is taken under a bright, half three in the afternoon sun. The bell tolls at the church, ringing so loud that it is heard from miles away. Grief hangs in the air, despair so thick at the loss of life and love that it is like wading through quicksand while underwater.

I remember the day I decided to leave my village. I will never know the exact date, but I was napping under the afternoon sun waiting for the bell to toll. I had packed what few things I owned the night before, waiting for a distraction that would let me run without anyone noticing. As luck would have it, I headed out following a passing caravan. 

I had been beaten a few days before for coming home from the seamstress with a new shirt with such intricate embroidery. My father and my uncle were both veterans of Charles VIII’s Italian War, and they had their ideas about how boys and men were to act—my father had seen it and reacted harshly, as if flowers and birds on a boy who was old enough to work meant I was not right. 

Regardless, my uncle had met a tragic end the next day, his life cut short by a _nasty_ little surprise spill off his horse in the stable. Naturally, I refused to watch him be buried since he had been just the sort of person as Sir Raleigh Horgan downstairs who asked where your dress was and if you would be filling drinks tonight. Condescending and hateful, and who needs to know _just_ how afraid of you they should be. They seek to humiliate us as if the fanaticism revolving around genitals matters.

They are cruel men who taste no consequences in our polite society that demands conformity, but _oh_ I can play around. I can make somebody think that I have dropped them off a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean somewhere perfectly in between the Americas and here. They can sink and sink and never see another creature, or they can see every monster of the deep that makes them wet themselves. He will sit in his own piss tonight and hold onto the comfort of its warmth because the ocean is _cold_ and unforgiving, deep as he is and with no life-line back up. He can think he is drowning, and he will have nightmares for _years_ whenever he so much as steps into a shallow puddle. 

And it is something that I would do for you to prove that you are not alone in wanting more out of your life. What is it to be human when others have never shown you the courtesy of acceptance, and what is it to be male amongst bigots? Very few people know about my origin, Jonah, and you would do well to erase what you do not like about yourself so that it cannot be used against you. Your body is a wonder, and your mind has a thirst to understand and _conquer_ , but your habits and posture and speech lack the confidence you need to exist amongst _dirt_. You are superb as you are, my dear, but I know you crave more.”

Lucious kisses the hair at Jonah’s head again, knowing that he is dazed as can be with his body humming with energy. From the fear or from his covetous thoughts, Lucious cannot be sure, but all the same he forces more of the velocity into Jonah, the wind battering the outside walls and rattling the panes of glass in the window. He tugs at the already loose tie on Jonah’s shirt, sticking his hand in and gently cupping the bindings over his chest. Less a forward gesture and meant as simple intimacy, Lucious can feel Jonah’s heart beating wildly, can _feel_ his nausea. 

There is a sick joy to be had here, that makes him want to toss Jonah into the depths after fattening his fear up so delectably. However tempting it is, he is quite attached to the lad, and the deprivation of such a deceitful recidivist from the world would be a crime in itself. Jonah is crying softly, and Lucious bends down to kiss the tear tracks; it is a gentle gesture to impart that he can be trusted.

“I am everywhere, and I am nowhere. At a moment’s notice, I can toss someone into a cavern that has no end to the branches of paths that can be taken. I can shrink the space around me until I am orbiting the stars themselves. I have felt _so_ small, Jonah. Insignificant and _tiny_ , like an ant to a human. Like the first human looking through a telescope into deep space and finding that there were certain points of light in the sky that were actually planets, and what that meant for our understanding of our macrocosm. 

But we are so complex, Jonah. We are born, and we grow, and we feel, and we _die_. You have been sad, and you have been afraid, and hurt, and every negative emotion that you may not even be able to name. And you have not been happy, and you do not know how to achieve what you wish to. 

You may not have the same lofty desires as I do, but it is your _right_ to take what you deserve from those who would rather see you outed and ridiculed and beaten until you are either back in line or dead. And if you have to dig deep into yourself to figure out how to prey on their fear, then you are entitled to that. It is worth causing others pain, and it is worth giving up the charade that is the world around us as it is. 

Jonah, there are fourteen cardinal fears, and I would bet you _burn_ to know all about them. You want to know everything you can because you are _bored_ of the charade of life outside of the shadows, and you do not want to be well-behaved about it anymore. So ask yourself, have you ever choked, claustrophobia numbing your mind until you can’t breathe and everything is pushing down? Have you ever felt the filth clawing at your skin, revolting enough to make you feel like disease is seeping into your pores?

Have you ever been blinded into the darkness in a way where it seems you will never see another point of light ever again? Have you felt the heat of flames choking you, destroying everything in its path and cornering you? Do you fear death? Do you fear being chased as if you are a prey animal being stalked by a jeering king on a hunt? Or are you afraid of flesh and blood and gore, that you are just an animated skeleton of meat and entrails to be twisted violently? 

Maybe you are afraid of a more violent pain that comes to pass from unadulterated and fickle violence. Or perhaps you are afraid of the unknown, that something is not quite right and that the people that you know are not who they say they are, that they will hurt you and steal your identity. Or instead you are afraid of losing your mind to madness, that you will one day become so lost that you will never find your way home—and you hate being lied to, that people are intentionally deceiving you, but hate does not necessitate fear.

Perhaps you do not want to be alone; to be forsaken is a powerful feeling, but as we are, we are both very lonely men by nature, would you agree? Are you afraid of insignificance and you seek to control that instead like I have? Are you afraid instead of being controlled, miserable to be trapped into this life and manipulated by those you hate? Jonah, there are so many things to be afraid of, but I think I know what keeps you awake past the bewitching hour.”

Jonah stiffens in his lap, and Lucious eases off his influence, the wind outside dying down as the dizzying scent of noxious air starts to fade. It is now considerably later, the moon hanging lower in the sky even though dawn has not yet started to approach. The important thing, now, is that he has Jonah’s complete attention. Not that it has wavered tonight, quite the opposite, Lucious has had his complete and rapt consideration this whole time. The lad knows he is telling the truth, that something like this cannot possibly be fabricated, and he _knows_ that his charge had been contemplating these very things on his own. He wants his words to sink underneath Jonah’s skin.

“You are afraid of people _knowing_ ,” Lucious says sweetly into his hair, noting that his heart is racing so much faster now that he has a clear head. “You are afraid of being watched and exposed, of having your deepest secrets revealed in such a way that you will be destroyed. And yet you _crave_ to know everything that you can, don’t you. More than fitting in amongst these men who will not see you as you are, you want the power of knowing their secrets and you want to _consume_ them. I wonder how far you will go to achieve that, Jonah…”

Taking a deep breath, Lucious closes his eyes and lets Jonah digest everything he has said. He has no more rhetoricals to pose him about what it means to be a part of an infinity or an alternate reality and to be simultaneous. There is nothing else to say about what it means to be a person, or what death is in its most final form and how Lucious runs from the magnitude of never again _being_. 

For now, it is enough for Jonah to turn in his lap more fully, reaching up to cup Lucious’ cheek, voice raspy as he demands, “Show me _exactly_ what it was like when you fell.” Jonah’s fingernails dig into Lucious’ cheek, and he has to ask himself again: 

Who would he be to deny Jonah the knowledge?

**Author's Note:**

> [Tintoretto - The Martyrdom of St Paul](https://www.wga.hu/art/t/tintoret/2a/2st_paul.jpg)
> 
> [Pieter Bruegel the Elder - The Harvesters](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/435809)
> 
> [Tintoretto - Saint George and The Dragon](https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/saint-george-and-the-dragon/IQHhTg2D2S9stw?hl=en)
> 
> [Pillars of Creation (as seen from Hubble)](https://hubblesite.org/uploads/image_file/image_attachment/30516/STScI-gallery-1501c-2000x960.jpg)


End file.
